User blog:Jaskren/"Reawakened"
“Reawakened” "And in those days BEHEMOTHS walked this world, Great and terrible creatures of the earth, Creators, Protectors, Destroyers. But those tales are older than I, And have not been Revealed to me." Line 691-695, The Final Prophesy of Hecktor Stonetongue He took a deep breath. The cold air swirled around his lips, curled about his tongue, and made the stinging journey down into his lungs. He let out a small cough. The substance in his throat found its way to his mouth. Whatever it was tasted of dry chalk… and limes. He smacked his lips together. Definitely limes. That was new. In his slumber, he had almost forgotten about the frozen air of the Whiteroots. Not that it mattered; he had always liked the climate of the southern lands. He sat up. The small gnome felt every bone and joint in his body ache and crack. He was becoming too old for this. Sitting on the edge of his stone bed, the gnome surveyed his chamber. At least no one stole anything this time. That was a relief. Far too often had the gnome awoken to find his belongings missing or vandalized. The new seal he had placed on his chamber door was to thank for his good fortune, but the aging gnome did not remember this fact and started down the stone steps. His wide eyes darted from one end of the chamber to the next, looking for something with which to outfit himself. Tidiness was not his strongest suit, but he managed to find some basic necessities in short order. Finding clothing was not an issue, mostly due to how much of it was strewn about the chamber. Why was there so much of it? He found his supply drawer unusually empty and full of dust, save for a few potions that were the color of sapphires. He hadn’t a clue what kinds of elixirs they were, but he tossed them in his pack for good measure. Ready to disembark, the tiny creature trudged to the doorway. Something didn’t feel quite right. Something was missing. He looked about his chamber a final time. Leaning against his stone bed frame was a gnarled, wooden staff. I wouldn’t have made it very far without you now, would I? He hobbled back up the stone stairs, grabbed the staff, and made his way back to the doorway. All this activity exhausted the little fellow. When he had recovered his breath, the gnome tapped the door several times with the end of his staff. The door groaned outwardly to reveal the frozen tundra beyond its frame. Drawing his face into the hood of his furs, the gnome left his stone chamber and disappeared into the snowy night. +++++++++++++ Why have I awoken? The snowy winds coated his body with moisture. The chalky taste in the gnome’s mouth disappeared hours ago, but the distinct taste of lime remained. Every now and then he would stop to ingest a bit of snow. He could feel every sensation inside of his body—the melting of the snow in his mouth, the way it rushed down his throat like a waterfall in a hot spring, the surge of blood in his veins like a thousand tiny rivers coursing through too-narrow banks. This is what it felt like to be alive. He forgot about that from time to time. After a few days on foot, he passed by what he assumed were the remnants of the Weeping Woods. The forest had clearly receded since he last passed through, but perhaps that wasn’t such a bad thing. The gnome had lived long enough to know the secret of those woods. I have spoken with their spirits. I know the master they serve. He stayed along the edge of the woods for a long while, listening to the whispers of the woods. A strange kind of sadness gripped him as he walked further north, leaving the Weeping Woods behind. Some things in this world are beyond restoration. +++++++++++++ The peaks and valleys before him stretched out like a kicked-up doormat. The gods hadn’t been exceptionally deliberate in their creation of the Whiteroots, that was sure. The mountain that was nearest to the gnome was Laran’s Peak, named after the elven sorcerer that had made his home there in ages passed. Remembering that there was a small elven settlement at the base of the peak, he ventured onward with hopes of a warm hearth in his heart. The town that he found, after a small trek into the valley, was not elven in the slightest. One would be hard-pressed to call it a town at all, for its streets were bustling and filled with activity. This was a gnomish city, and a busy one at that. Thick smoke poured into the skies above. He had not seen the settlement from the edge of the valley; the day’s snowfall had masked his view of the city until he was nearly atop it. Fumbling for his bearings and wanting to find some shelter from the cold, the small gnome stumbled into a tavern. The gnome realized in that instant that quite some time had passed since he had last awoken. Elves were a proud and long-lived race, it was unlike them to have made way for the settlement of gnomes, particularly when the sorcerer Laran once ruled over these parts of the world. What caused you to disappear, old friend? And where have your kin gone off to? Such were questions for wiser folk than you or me. The gnome took closer notice of his surroundings. Tapestries lined the walls, many depicting ancient gnomish heroes locked in combat with their dwarven adversaries. Some things never change, I suppose. He recognized tapestries of Glord the Beard-cleaver and Seward the Jewel-smith, both of whom died heroically in some way or another. One tapestry was foreign to him, though. The tapestry before him featured a huge mail-clad warrior with a helmet shaped like the head of a ram. The gnome shifted his eyes further down the length of the tapestry. Standing before the ram-headed warrior stood a small gnome wielding a tiny gnarled staff. Category:Blog posts